


since you left

by egare



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Apocalypse, Canon?? Canon powers?? We don't know her, I absolutely ADORE that that's a tag, Isolation, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Suicidal Thoughts, daisy and jon are BESTIES and you cannot convince me otherwise, hurt and comfort in MY scottish safehouse? it's more likely than you think, is it important to the story that you know jon's making abgoosht? no. is it important to me? yes., the nonsexual intimacy of bathing someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egare/pseuds/egare
Summary: He stilled, the knife resting on the potato he was prepping to cut. He thought of the way Basira questioned when they would be able to visit and responded, almost hesitant, “Basira doesn’t really think it would be... smart. For her to see you right now.”-Martin is not only a victim of the Lonely.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 230





	1. Chapter 1

“How are they doing?”

It was a simple question, no compulsion behind it. Martin didn’t understand why it had caught him so off guard, being a question that had been asked every Saturday at around 11:30am for the past four weeks. They had once had a schedule set where the two of them would go down to the nearest town that had cell service, stop by the bakery there that was ran by a man named Leonard ‘Lenny’ Godfrey, and give Basira a call. Every other Saturday, Lenny had a package for them filled with statements and a bit of cash; he asked no questions, as long as Martin bought something and promised to “feed that man of yours”. The schedule stayed for only so long, as Jon began to look at the people in town the same way said people would look at Lenny’s pastries. Boxes of statements that were meant to last a month lasted for less than three weeks, exactly the opposite of what Martin had expected. He had figured that they were safe, now, Jon could… conserve his energy. And yet his hunger only grew with each passing week, some days bearable and others bad enough for Jon to have to flee to the pastures, away from people. _“I can’t exactly take statements from cows, yet,”_ Jon had joked the first time he went off to be alone. 

But now Jon stood in the kitchen beside a warm stove, looking toward Martin with no particular expression but still expecting an answer. In return Marin cleared his throat and set the groceries on the table, moving up behind Jon and wrapping his arms around the other man. He rested his chin on Jon’s shoulder, watching him cook as he responded, teasing, “Don’t you know?”

“I try to give you a bit of privacy.” He said in return, the eye roll almost audible. Martin smiled at that, but answered the question originally posed to him.

“The other Hunters have been ‘dealt with’, however we want to interpret that. Uh... Daisy’s getting better. Police are off their back.” 

He felt Jon’s shoulders relax beneath his chin and a slight vibration as he let out a shaky exhale, nodding. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”

They worked in silence for a while, Martin moving from his comfortable position behind Jon to stand at a counter and help. It was a peaceful sort of quiet, interrupted only occasionally by the sound of knives hitting cutting boards, the slight bubbling of broth and meat in a pot, or the directions Jon gave Martin on how to juice the dried limes.

He looked over when Jon cleared his throat, noticing the tinge of embarrassment as he asked Martin, “Do you think they... would want to come here? Someday?”

And that was a thing to consider. They had focused on the present for so long— survive, get out of London, get the safehouse set up to be somewhere they could actually rest— that Martin needed to take an extra moment to think about it. Obviously they couldn’t stay here forever, but, “Basira said we wouldn’t have to leave until we were ready.”

“I meant more... all of us. There’s certainly enough room.” Jon seemed almost embarrassed to suggest it, focusing the entirety of his attention on his cooking. “Do you think they would want to visit?”

Oh.

_~~“Daisy’s been wanting to see him, we might pop over for a visit now that everything’s cleared up. She keeps telling me about these cows—“~~ _

_~~He isn't sure what brought him to interrupt, "That’s not a good idea. Jon’s not been... well.”~~ _

Martin stilled the knife resting on the potato he was prepping to cut. He thought of the way Basira questioned when they would be able to visit and responded, almost hesitant, “Basira doesn’t really think it would be... smart. For them to see you right now.”

~~_“Huh. The box should have lasted him a month, at least. We’ll just bring another set up with us, have him read it before—“_ ~~

~~_“No! Uh. No? It’s not safe. Jon would hate it if he accidentally hurt either of you.”_ ~~

“O-Oh. Of course.” Jon deflated, before posing a second suggestion, “What about Georgie and Melanie? I know we didn’t end on the best of terms, but, well….”

“Do you really think they would come this far for a visit?” There’s no malice behind his words. He watched the way Jon's whole body turned in on itself, and Martin reached over to take his hands in his own; he placed a kiss on his knuckles before looking up to Jon, meeting his eyes. _They’re grey._ Martin realized, smiling softly. He had always thought they were brown.

“This just needs to simmer, yeah? Let’s go out of the house. It’s a beautiful day for a walk, sun’s shining— Jon?” 

Jon wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore. “Maybe... maybe tomorrow, Martin.”

“You said that yesterday.” He pointed out, gentle. One hand reached up to cusp Jon’s cheek, bringing his gaze to meet his own. But Jon pulled away, getting to work on cleaning up the kitchen.

“Not today. Please.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. It’s okay.” Martin moved to bring him into an embrace but paused at the way Jon sank into himself. Instead, he stated, “I love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Is everything alright, Jon?”

“I’m... tired.” Even now, Jon was never one to admit he was tired. Martin reached a hand out, ignoring the slight flinch as he placed it against Jon’s forehead. It felt normal, colder than usual, even. Jon seemed almost in a daze as he pulled his hand away from his forehead, and Martin pursed his lips in consideration and stared, waiting the few moments it took for Jon to bring Martin back into his line of sight. He gave a gentle smile when he finally got Jon's eyes once again, leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead before speaking.

“I’ll clean this up. Go get some rest, yeah?”

Jon was quiet for a moment, weighing his options. “…alright.”

Martin led him to the bedroom, going so far as to pull back the blankets when it seemed like Jon was going to just lay down on top of the bed; he had bent down to give Jon another kiss, but paused when he saw the man shy away, standing up straight and not letting his disappointment ruin his smile. He headed toward the door, a hand resting on the light switch as he turned back to Jon. He looked... small, in the bed; where Martin distinctly remembered Jon's old warning about how he often splayed out in his sleep, he was now bundled up beneath the blankets, on his side with his knees brought close to his chest.

"Goodnight, love." Martin called out, switching the light off.

There was no response.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: [has the entire story already written]  
> also me: but what if I just start over and do it differently

Jon hadn’t woken up before nightfall, and Martin slipped into bed with soft murmurs of goodnight that remained unanswered. It was easy to fall asleep with the comfort of an abundance of blankets, and the knowledge that the man he loved lay beside him.

He startled awake not longer after to the feeling of a sudden chill.

“Love? Is everything alright?” He sat up, noticing the blue tinge to Jon’s lips, the washed out pallor to his face. Jon didn’t stir, and were it not for the slight rise and fall of his chest Martin would have assumed him dead. As it was he had to take a moment to collect himself, not wanting to panic else it be made worse. “Jon?”

Moving his hand onto Jon’s forehead Martin’s own creased, concerned as cold radiated from him despite the blankets. He repeated Jon’s name a few more times, louder with each passing attempt to get his attention until finally, on the sixth call, he woke up; Jon’s movements were sluggish, his eyes half-lidded and shifting slowly to look toward Martin.

“Nightmare?” There was nothing but care in Jon’s voice, as sleepy as it sounded, and Martin’s heart twisted. He hadn’t even known something was wrong, then.

“You woke me up.” He corrected, wincing at the way he had worded it and stammering to correct himself, “I- I mean, you were. You were freezing, Jon. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Ah, sorry.” He lowered his head and shifted to get comfortable once again. But Martin panicked as he saw Jon slip back to sleep, the temperature moving back down with him, and he shook him awake once more.

“Mm?”

“You can’t sleep yet, Jon.” He explained, very begrudgingly moving out from under the blankets. “I’m going to make some tea and run you a hot bath, okay? We’ll wait for this statement giver to wake up, and then you can sleep again.”

“Statement giver?” Jon had repeated quietly to himself, watching Martin as he got up and reached blindly for a sweater before heading out the door. It was muscle memory from there as he headed into the kitchen, heating up the kettle and preparing the tea; he popped his head back into the bedroom every half a minute or so, thankful every time he looked and saw Jon still sitting up. Two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk were added in at the end, just as Jon liked it. A shiver ran up his spine as he returned to the room fully, cold and fog greeting him.

“Tea’s ready.” He guided Jon up with surprisingly little complaint, pushing the cup of warm tea into his hands and meeting his eyes. “I’m going to go run the bath. Just drink this, okay?”

Jon showed no sign of agreement but also none disagreeing, so Martin took that as a yes and exited the room with only three looks back. He wasn’t being… paranoid, or anything. Just careful. He knew more than anyone else how the Lonely could get someone, and it wasn’t like Martin knew if Jon was immune to the effects of the nightmares or not. Jon never told him if he felt claustrophobic in others’ memories of the Buried, if he felt the flames in the nightmares of the victims of the Desolation. Martin just had to assume the worst and plan according to that.

The bathroom was a small space, not as homey as the living room had surprisingly turned out to be when they got there, not as spacious as the bedroom. But it had a tub and all the other necessities of hygiene, and for that Martin was grateful. There were fewer better ways to unwind than a hot bath at the end of the day. 

“Jon? The bath’s ready.” Martin called out, giving a knock on the door before walking in on the offchance that he had undressed. But Jon remained sitting where Martin last left him, tea barely touched, and he gave a soft sigh, moving to stand in front of him once more. “Hey.”

“Martin.” He sounded surprised, as if he was expecting someone else. As if he wasn’t expecting anyone at all. Martin worked a bit harder to keep his smile in place, reaching for one of Jon’s elbows and guiding him up. He followed easily, feet not making a sound. When they got to the bath Jon simply stared into the water, blinking occasionally. Martin gave it a few moments before clearing his throat, cautiously questioning,

“Do you, er… need help?”

No response.

He reached forward, keeping an eye on Jon's expression and preparing to stop the minute he showed discomfort. Maneuvering himself to help him undress while also keeping his eyes firmly on the ceiling was a bit of a difficult task, but Martin managed in only three times the amount of time it would have taken to do the task alone. There had been no sound as Jon stepped in and sat, and the water seemed to be barely disturbed. When Jon brought his knees to his chest Martin allowed himself to look, face flushed red but firmly set in concentration. 

He tried to hum, as he brought water above Jon and poured it over him, but no song came to mind. When he reached for the water once again Jon grasped at his wrist, and Martin met his eyes. His heart twisted in his chest at the expression they showed.

Jon was terrified.

“Talk to me, Jon. What do you see?” Martin was almost pleading, reaching out to grab Jon’s hands. They were still cold. He waited a few seconds, calming himself down before asking again, “What do you see?”

“Water.” His voice was barely above a whisper, grating from disuse as Martin brought their hands to Jon’s eye level, giving a nonverbal urge to continue. “My hands. The… the shampoo bottle. You.”

“What do you hear?”

“Your voice. Mine. Waves.” Martin hoped he meant from the water in the tub.

“What do you feel?” 

“Cold. Warm.” A small smile.

“And what do you taste?”

“Tea.” Good, that was good, he looked like he was getting better.

“What do you smell?”

The smile faltered, and Jon met his gaze. His eyes held a desperation that Martin had seen only a few times: a fragile moment after it was revealed Sasha was dead and replaced, a held back sob when he had the first moment in months to mourn for Tim. An anguished plea when Jon admitted amongst fog and reverb that he needed Martin.

“What do you smell, Jon?”

“Saltwater.”

—

The admittance of what was happening did not change much when morning officially rolled around.

“We need to talk about this.” Martin said, setting down a plate in front of him. There was no need to clarify what ‘this’ was. Jon took in a deep breath and exhaled, shaking his head.

“There’s not much to talk about.”

“Not much to— Jon, really!” He was in disbelief, sitting at the table and watching as Jon picked at his food; nothing out of the ordinary, Jon mostly only ever ate to please Martin. This was more willing movement than Martin had seen in the past few days combined, though, so at the very least it was a sign for the better.

“Leaving you alone to figure out how to control this will only send you back to the Lonely,” His voice tapered off at the end, not accustomed to speaking proper sentences, “and it isn’t like I can safely stay in town, anyways.”

“Well we can’t just… let this happen.”

“You got me before _it_ did, didn’t you?”

“You hadn’t said a complete sentence to me in days.” He countered, realizing, “How did I not even notice?”

“Martin, really, it isn’t—“

“Don’t.” Jon cut himself off quickly at the order, too quickly, and Martin winced. “Just… don’t say it’s not a big deal, okay? If you were doing this to me, you know it would be.”

“I know.” His voice was soft, and Martin matched it as he continued,

“We’ll figure something out, yeah?” 

“Of course.”  
  
The rest of breakfast continued in mostly silence and small talk, Martin mentioning whatever curious story there was in the paper— old, from the last time he had gone to town, but still an interesting read— and Jon making the proper sounds of acknowledgement. The two of them abused Jon’s power to solve the crossword, though Jon admitted he knew most of the words already (“What, did you read a dictionary to try to seem smarter?” Jon turned red and looked away), and by the end of it Martin realized an hour and a half had passed. His face broke into a smile when he saw Jon willingly stand, reaching out to grab Martin’s plate and heading toward the kitchen.

“I’m gonna go clean up a bit, okay?”

Taking a shower was a calming simplicity, if he was to be honest, and after the building worry it was something he needed. There was something satisfying about forgetting what was going on past the curtain and instead just listening to the sound of water, focusing the list of steps that had to be done to clean up. He didn’t have to worry about judgement (though he did take a moment to check, to feel, to see where Jon’s Eyes were), about plans, about London or anyone else.

At least, for the first few minutes.  
  
The water beat down on him, drowning out most of the world outside the bathroom until one familiar click signaled a recorder turning on, likely on its own; Jon hadn't mentioned he was going to record a statement. It was jarring, to turn from the peace of a monotonous haze of necessities in one moment to complete and utter fear in the next, at the idea that something could be happening. Hadn’t felt like this before, hadn’t been concerned that at any moment something could be happening, happening to Jon— no, that wasn’t true. Martin was always concerned, but his concerns had never been validated through the confirmation that something interesting, likely dangerous, was most definitely happening.

Grabbing the nearest towel and barely remembering to turn the water off, he slipped on some trousers and poked his head out of the bathroom, tense. He heard a door close and called out, “Jon?”

One hand reaching for the nearest weapon he could find to accompany him in his search, Martin stepped out of the bathroom. Not in the hall or the living room, either. There was some statement about Hazel Rutter on the floor in front of the couch, which accidentally landed in the fireplace in Martin’s fit to find Jon. His concern continued to grow as he looked toward the kitchen, out the window by the front door, even in the bedroom, “Jon!”

With a growing sense of dread, Martin had to admit that Jon was… gone. The kettle whistled from the stove, where it had been abandoned as the captor took him without a care; a drawer was open, where most of the utensils were located— had Jon gone for a knife to defend himself, had his kidnapper gone for one to threaten him? There was rustling from outside and Martin’s grip on the handle tightened. He took a moment to consider his options; if he knew where his loved ones were he would have happily ignored it, but there were too many variables, too much unknown. He had to know

“Hello?” Martin called out, trying to listen for another rustle, maybe see a flash of movement—

“Out here!” He jumped, not expecting a voice that was decidedly not Jon to respond. It took a moment for his mind to register the voice as Basira, and he calmed at the realization before his panic returned tenfold. Basira was here. Why was she here?

The cottage had something akin to a garden in the back, or something that could have been a garden had it been properly maintained. A wooden table and two chairs sat beneath a large tree, a mixture of weeds and flowers overgrown and hiding the bottom half of the furniture. At the table sat Basira, legs crossed and eyes focused downward where Daisy and Jon sat on the ground. Daisy had perked up, on the defensive when she heard the back door open, and her looking toward him gave Martin a chance to study her. There were new scars, and hair that had once been long and pulled back was now sheared short. Her features were sharper than what he had last remembered, but perhaps that was just him projecting his belief in how dangerous she was. And she was sitting… right next to him.

“Martin Blackwood, is that a _plunger_?” Jon turned to see what had gotten Daisy and Basira’s attention, and he was… smiling. Truly smiling, nothing soft or small, something that Martin hadn’t seen in too long. He turned red at the attention of the three of them combined, setting the plunger down and rubbing the back of his neck.

“I didn’t know who it was.”

“So of all the weapons I had stored away, you decided on this instead?”

“Let off him, Daisy,” Her smile was evident in her tone, even if her face didn’t betray the emotion; she waved off at the two of them, “go on in. Don’t let her try to help with the tea, Jon, she’ll mess it up.”

Jon didn’t say anything in response and simply stood, offering a hand to Daisy; she swatted it away but threw an arm around him when she got up, leading him to the door. They seemed… friendly. Friendlier than Martin expected. He kept his eyes on the two as they came near, offering his own hello and belatedly stepping out of the way for them to enter.

The door closed behind them. Basira was looking at him.

“I didn’t hear you arrive.” He pointed out, weakly. She was not amused, anymore.

“Daisy’s quiet.”

“You didn’t give a warning. We hardly have anything to offer....”

“We brought pastries. Why’d you get rid of all the mirrors?”

Out of all the questions for her to ask that one seemed out of place, surprising him, “What?” 

“We were just in for a minute to drag Jon out, but there’s not a single reflective surface in there. Daisy remembers the place like the back of her hand, and specifically remembers three mirrors that aren’t there anymore. So why’d you get rid of them?”

“Jon might have—“

“Jon doesn’t seem like he wants to do much of anything right now, much less tear down mirrors nailed to the wall. Why don’t you want him to see himself?” 

“What?” He repeated, not following; was there a capital on that ‘see’? Was that what he was afraid of? If a few less mirrors could keep the Beholding out of their lives, it was a sacrifice for the better, Martin figured. But he knew that Jon was not separated completely from the Eye just yet, in the way a chained-up dog still had its hunger, in the way a dying fire was still too hot to touch—

_Yet._ He focused back on the way he had thought her words through, and wondered. At first consideration, he didn't know where the connection between the mirrors and Beholding came from, and what had led to the defensive nature of his tone. But after a bit of deliberation, he was reminded of his time in the Lonely, of the way Jon's gaze had Seen him _._ Was it his intention to separate Jon from the Eye, from Seeing himself? Had he been trying to do that, even subconsciously?

“Martin.” He looked back up, not knowing he had turned too far in his thoughts. “Why’d you lie to us?”

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“On the call. You made it pretty clear that he wasn’t safe to be around.” She looked through to the window— one that had once been boarded up, now open and showing the two of them in the kitchen. Daisy commented on something and Jon lightly hit her arm, shooing her away from the counter. “Seems fine to me. Tame, even.”

“What are you getting at?” He snapped, straightening his posture. She didn’t back down.

“I just want to know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is— the last I heard of Daisy, she was a monster.” He didn’t miss the way Basira flinched at the word, minuscule but there. “Sorry if I didn’t want her around him.”

She was silent for a moment, considering. Martin tried not to shuffle under her gaze. “That’s not really the reason though, is it?”

“What do you want, Basira?” If he sounded a bit hysterical, well, neither of them were going to point it out. She kept herself collected, each word carefully thought out and intentional.

“A lot has been going on lately, and I figured that none of us treated each other fairly because of it. Now that everything’s calmed down, Daisy and I thought it would be good to get back together. Even got with Melanie, she said she would be willing to try again.” Melanie, who had stabbed Jon? Martin would prefer not to, he had enough trouble with Daisy as is. “We’re not saying to be the best of friends with each other. But considering what we’ve all went through together, I thought it was good to at least stay in contact. Especially since none of us are sick, but haven’t returned to the Archives in weeks— a bit suspicious, isn’t it?”

“You’re suspicious that… nothing bad’s happening.”

She let out a sigh, almost pained to admit, “Yes, I’m suspicious that nothing bad’s happening. Especially with Jon involved.”

“So you came to check and make sure he wasn’t, what, starting off his own world-ending ritual for the Eye?” He was accusatory, and with good reason. Yeah, he wondered sometimes if he was just a pawn in a ritual for the Beholding; all the other entities had their own, and any amount of announced neutrality couldn’t sway Martin from wondering if the Eye and its followers were the same. But the idea that Jon, who apologized every time he accidentally compelled someone, who flinched when someone raised their voice or made a sudden sound, that Jon would trying to do a ritual of his own?

Is that why she brought Daisy with her? Martin wondered. Were they going to… he turned to the window, looking in and barely hearing the words that she spoke over his pounding heart.

“No, we came to check that he was alri—“

“Basira!”

The sounds of crashing and breaking accompanied Daisy’s panicked yell, and a roar of what sounded like anger paired with the sound of splintering wood followed soon after. Basira’s eyes widened, often concealed emotions betraying her whenever Daisy was concerned; she turned her attention back to Martin briefly, suspicion evident before deciding against vocalizing her thoughts and heading in toward the cottage. He moved after her, quiet.

There was a knife embedded into the wall beside the back door. What little mess Martin had make while looking for Jon was overthrown tenfold by Daisy’s sudden panic, a serving plate shattered on the ground and pastries along with it, the dining room table that they had sat at just this morning now flipped and broken. There’s an emotion that Martin can’t pin down as anger or fear, but it seemed to lean more prominently toward the former as she met Martin’s eyes.

“He’s gone.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Bring him back.”

They had been going about this for an hour.

“Like I said the first twelve times you asked me to,” Martin sounded tired, the words that were once snappish now just repetitive on his tongue, “I don’t know how.”

“At least you’re admitting it’s your fault, this time.” Basira pointed out, referring to the first four attempts in which Martin had frantically tried to convince them that he didn’t know what had happened. 

“Yeah, we established that, oh, half an hour ago.” After the denial he had gone on the defensive, saying it wasn’t him that did it, it was someone else, but he had gotten ripped from that stage quickly enough through blunt logic and a few colorful threats. No one else knew they were there, Basira couldn’t do anything like this, and had it been Daisy… it would have been a lot more visible. Now instead of trying to convince Martin he had been the one to do it, he had to try and convince Basira and Daisy that yes, he did it, but he didn’t know how.

“You would think you’d be a bit more concerned that your boyfriend’s been dealing with the Lonely for weeks because of you.” Her tone was nonchalant, but what little fire he had left flared up at the accusation.

“Of course I’m concerned!”

“Then act like it.” 

He hadn’t expected something like this to happen; Martin had been under the presumption that the Lonely wanted him as a victim, not an… an avatar. It didn’t make him have to feed off the loneliness of others because his own loneliness was meant to be enough. But it made sense, now that Martin had someone who made him warm again; he had Jon, he had the village down a ways, in a way he even had Basira and her check-in calls. There were moments where he had been alone, yes, but never lonely.

On the other hand, there was Jon. Jon, who had no work to throw himself into, no work to bury unwanted thoughts beneath. Jon, whose only connection with the outside world was Martin because he couldn’t trust himself to go to the village and keep his Eyes to himself. It explained the rate that Jon had been going through statements, trying to fend off the encroaching hold of the Lonely, and looking back on it Martin could see the little ways he helped strengthen the cold grasp. He could see himself worrying even after Jon had a statement, wondering aloud if it was really safe to go to the village even when internally he knew it was perfectly fine. That would always get Jon to sink into himself, nodding and agreeing, not confident in his own judgement and falling to the opinion of the only other person he had spoken to in weeks, the one he trusted

“It took the Eye— Beholding— whatever, to get me out, and I don’t have that kind of power, okay?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. It was the complete opposite, really, he only had the power to reel Jon in further. “I’ll— I’ll look for a way to get him out, but for now he’s— he’s safe there—“

Her arms are crossed as she leaned back in her chair; Basira’s not impressed. “Really? You call that safe?”

“Considering no one that wants to murder him can reach him, and he not starving anymore, yes! I call that safe!”

It was silent after his outburst. He didn’t dare to look at Daisy, aware that he had thrown a glance when he talked about people wanting to hurt Jon, fully aware of the brief look of guilt that crossed her face.

“You won’t be able to hold the Lonely off him if you want him to stay there.”

He sighed, exasperated. “I don’t want him to—!”

“Yes, you do.” It was Daisy who spoke, Basira tensing beside her. She had been quiet for the majority of the conversation. “It makes sense. The Eye can’t get him there, and it’s not like he’s in pain. As far as ways to cut him off go, the Lonely’s pretty tame.”

“Daisy....” Basira sounded soft as she said her name, a moment of fragility that Martin didn’t think he should have been witnessing. But she straightened up and continued, meeting Martin’s eyes.

“But it wasn’t his choice. It might feel nice for him now, but he didn’t choose this.” 

“I know.”

“You have to let him go, Martin.”

His voice cracked, “I know.”

“Then do it.”

Martin closed his eyes slowly, tense, still aware of the world around him as he heard the two of them move to sit in the living room; Daisy likely took the floor, Basira the chair beside the now dwindling fireplace. Inhale, exhale, he focused his attention internally, noting his own heartbeat, feeling something build up slowly in his throat. Inhale, exhale, he tried to clear his mind, picture the beach he had once been at himself. His heartbeats was drowned out by the sound of a single cough and a muttered apology for interrupting the silence.

Basira and Daisy would leave if he wasn’t able to bring Jon back, Martin thought to himself before promptly trying to shut down that train of thought. But it continued on, as he realized they would never forgive him and never return, never call again. He had to get Jon back. All he would have would be this place filled with small signs of a better time, but even then, he wouldn’t have it for long, he didn’t even know if Daisy would kick him out regardless of the fact that she didn’t intend to stay. It’s not like he could stay here without Jon, anyways, he figured. Too many memories. There was the option of going home, but his flat back near London was gone, undoubtedly; he hadn’t paid the rent for months. No flat, no job, no friends, he would be entirely…

Alone.

He opened his eyes to an empty cottage.

“Jon?” He could see his breath as he spoke Jon’s name; his voice echoed with the sound of running water that could only be identified, as of now, as ‘not an ocean.’ Martin took a bit of time going through the rooms— the kitchen, where Jon found comfort in cooking even if he did not often eat, himself; the bedroom, where Martin would have laid down if he was in his position, beneath the blankets; he even checked the basement that the two of them had promptly closed after realizing, with hints of blood and weaponry, what had likely happened down there. It wasn’t until he passed through the kitchen once more that he caught sight of movement outside, through the window above the counter. There Jon stood in the garden, back toward Martin, looking around at what he must have seen as beautiful flowers.

All Martin could see was fog.

“Jon!” He called out, opening the back door and heading toward his partner. Here Jon turned at the sound of his name, a soft smile on his face. It had been so long since Martin had seen his smile, he realized. So long since he saw a smile unaccompanied with sadness, guilt, or fear, and now he got to see it twice in one day.

“Martin.” He did not sound worn out, speaking in a tone Martin had only gotten a week of before the Lonely began to take its toll on Jon. 

“Where’d you run off to, Jon? They’re worried about you.” Martin spoke gently, as if speaking to an animal that was in pain but at risk of attacking.

Jon looked to Martin; his face expressed curiosity, confusion, but his eyes simply… stared. “Who is?”

“Daisy and Basira. They’re here, remember? Do you not….” He didn’t know how to word the question. Jon cocked his head to the side, questioning, not able to guess what the intended question was. For a brief moment he seemed pained, but the emotion washed away to allow from for the neutrality of before.

“Right, Daisy and Basira. How have they been?”

“Don’t you know?” It’s an attempt at a joke to get a response from Jon, and his smiled faltered as he saw the way Jon tried to concentrate, trying to Know. His brows furrowed and Martin could see the slight indent from where he bit the inside of his mouth, until that too relaxed back to the untroubled expression it first had.

“I don’t.” He responded, soft, “It’s quiet here. I don’t… need to Know.”

Martin didn’t intend to apologize but it slipped out, hurried, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” The innocence of those two words twisted his heart; Jon genuinely didn’t put together that Martin had done this to him.

“Look, just… come back to us, alright? You can’t stay in the Lonely.”

“Oh, is that where I am?” Even with the admission he didn’t seem particularly worried. “I thought this was just… me.”

“Come on, we got out of here together before. Just… grab my hand and follow me.” To where? How was he supposed to get the two of them out of here? When he didn’t reach Martin did instead, reaching for his wrist; his hand tensed at sudden cold as it moved through where Jon’s arm was meant to be. Where Martin could clearly see the arm, yet not touch it. Why could he not touch it?

Jon stared at his outstretched hand, blinking once. “I don’t think I want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small but hurty


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: you need more sad conversation  
> also me: but..... but happy ending

He was distantly aware of the sound of a creek, the one that flowed a bit of ways behind the cottage. The world around him had gone quiet except for that creek, the birds no longer singing, the crickets having not chirped for quite some time. Through the window he could see the fireplace where a statement burned, but could not hear its crackling no matter how hard he focused. Not that he focused particularly hard.

It was… peaceful. This was a different embodiment than what Peter Lukas had once attempted to trap him in. Lukas had molded the Lonely to be a vast expanse of cold, one that drained its victims too quickly, one that wanted too much from them. In contrast, the Lonely as shaped by Martin was… a soft blanket, gentle, a layer that protected him from the world outside and urged him to just rest. It did not seem to want him as a source of satisfaction any longer, not particularly caring about whether or not he was afraid. I. this instance he was the opposite, relaxed, even, thankful for the embrace that surrounded him. 

There were no more rituals to stop, no more assistants to save, and no more friends to lose, it pointed out in whispers that accompanied the trickling of water. Everyone was as free and safe as they could be, and that seemed like a good way to leave the world. Daisy had a better grip on the Hunt than ever before, and with Basira at her side she was at little risk of losing herself again. Melanie and Georgie had one another, he was pretty sure they had gone back to one of their channels with the intention of debunking haunted locations, steering clear of real ones. Jonah Magnus was… he reached out briefly, feeling a flare of distress and aggravation, and decided that Jonah Magnus was decidedly not someone he had to worry about.

This was not death, not exactly. Despite others’ accusations of martyrdom and self-sacrifice, Jon did not intentionally seek out death. It had terrified him, both at the idea of his body shutting down and at the concept of an event that he did not Know the truth of. But this was not suicide. It was a gentle move in which he would not fully register when he stepped over the line that handed him from one entity to the other. This was a peaceful retreat from constant loss, pain, and hunger. He would leave no body, he would leave no mourners. 

Eventually the cottage might have guests. First his mother and father, who would not recognize the man he had grown to be but would nevertheless accept him. Maybe his grandmother even, who would snort and comment that he had finally found a place to satisfy his curiosity, who he would feel obligated to apologize to for reasons he could never quite place his finger on. Maybe he would see Gerry again. He hoped there would be a woman he would not recognize, one who would identify herself as the real Sasha James, one who would not blame him for actions done in ignorance.

Jon wondered if Tim would visit. He wondered if Tim would be less angry.

Fear did not grip his heart as he considered the afterlife. Nausea did not accompany the idea that there was to be something after death, and his breath did not catch at the idea of there being nothing at all.

“Jon?”

Oh, Martin. He had almost forgotten about Martin. Martin, who had been here before, who was shunted away after attempting to reach out. He was trying to get to Jon again, it seemed. Jon didn’t have the heart to tell him to leave.

“Talk to me, Jon.”

He could not think of what words to give.

“Can you just… come back to me, please? Just for a bit?”

 _I haven’t gone anywhere,_ he tried to say, but no words came out. Instead he turned to look at Martin, taking in his tearstained cheeks and puffy eyes. Had he been crying? Why had he been crying?

“I know it’s safe. I get it. I really, really get it.” There was a shaky exhale of what was an attempt at a laugh, laced with tears. “But you have to get out of here, okay? Daisy wants to see you again. Basira, too.”

Jon did not want to point out that Basira only saw him as a threat, and was likely thankful there was one less monster to worry about. A quiet voice deeper in his head brought up the fact that Daisy did, on most days, seem to tolerate him; it was drowned out by the fact that Daisy no doubt only felt obligated because Jon had saved her. With Jon gone, she would be able to move on.

But Martin. He had forgotten about Martin, who had as few friends as Jon did, who was still at risk of falling to the Lonely. Where Jon knew he was allowed to stay here, Martin wasn’t; he had so much ahead of him. He could… open that cat café, that the two of them had teased the idea of to each other in the aftermath of the Panopticon. He could have people who appreciated his tea from the beginning, who appreciated him as much as he deserved. He didn’t belong in the Lonely, but Jon could not bring himself to open his mouth and speak.

“Look around you, Jon. This isn’t right.”

His eyes stayed on Martin’s face. There were three marks down his cheek, running parallel as if someone had scratched him with their nails. But they would heal quickly enough, and with proper care they wouldn’t even leave a scar. He didn’t look up, didn’t think he would be able to meet Martin’s eyes, so he instead followed what was asked of him and looked around. 

There were flowers surrounding the two of them. Queen Anne’s Lace, something in the back of his mind provided. It irritated the skin, but Jon hadn’t felt the need to scratch anything for the entire time he had been standing in them. From the looks of it, though Jon had never been the best at interpreting the feelings of others, Martin didn’t feel the effects either. Had he been here long? Something distant in his chest twisted, and he felt it catch in his throat. Concern. 

The flowers wilted around them, sinking down to where they could not touch Martin any longer; a stem caught around Jon’s ankle, content to rest there. It didn’t escape Martin’s notice.

“ _But I can rest now._ ” He argued, gentle. This was right, he was done, he was allowed to do this.

“Yes, you can. But not here.” Why not? “We… we need you, Jon.”

“ _For what?_ ” There would be more rituals, but they would be able to find others to stop them. He saw the way Martin considered his next words and listened as he corrected himself,

“We _want_ you.” The stem around his ankle loosened and he felt a faint, itchy sensation on his skin. 

“Daisy and Basira came all this way to see you, y’know. Said they’d murder me on Georgie’s behalf if I didn’t get you back.” He laughed, and it did not sound as hollow as before. “And I, well. I want to spend time with you, obviously. We can see if you can pull statements from cows.”

There was a chuckle, echoing. It took a moment for Jon to realize it was his own. 

“We can… we can go back to London. Start that café we had talked about.” He took a step forward. “We can stay here too, if that’s what you want. I just… want to be with you. I want to be together.”

Jon didn’t know how to be in a relationship, how to... love, in what was considered a proper, normal fashion. He could never get a read on others, he never understood the meanings of soft touches and stolen glances. He didn’t do it right, was told by everyone except Georgie that there were parts of being a couple that had to be there even if he didn’t feel a need for it, that there were parts that he always messed up. If anything, the Lonely was saving Martin from settling for someone that was wrong. From a relationship with Jon that would never be right. He had to tell Martin. “ _I’ll mess it up. I can’t give you everything you want._ ”

And with no hesitation he responded, “ _You_ are everything I want.” 

“ _I..._ I don't really know how to....”

“We’ll learn together. Whatever it is.” But despite it all, Martin didn’t seem to care.

He watched as Martin brought a hand up, noting the way he was almost hesitant to be disappointed once again as he reached out to Jon’s arm. Warmth blossomed as Martin’s fingertips touched his skin and he let out a wet laugh, his shoulders sagging down and tension leaving his body as he more visibly choked up.

“M-Martin?” Jon had been startled by the sudden tears, reaching out and grabbing Martin’s hand; he didn’t know what else to do as tears started to build up at his eyes; it took a moment for him to realize he was crying, too. But Martin didn’t seem to mind, keeping his eyes on him. He cupped his hands around Jon’s face and Jon placed his on Martin’s own, and the two of them leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. It was Martin who spoke, soft. The words he breathed cut through the fog around them, enveloping Jon in clarity; the sound of Martin speaking drowned out a once deafening river.

“Let’s go home, Jon.”

And he responded just as soft, just as deafening, “Okay.”


End file.
